


Battlesong to Soulforge

by pimpbuttons



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bonded Pair, Dwarf Culture, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpbuttons/pseuds/pimpbuttons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Battlesongs and Soulforges did not often find themselves in those days, those days of ruin and trying to eke out existence in a mountain unwilling to give up iron. Thorin and Balin deemed it a blessing from Aulë, both on their quest and on the house of the Brothers Ri. Bilbo did not understand. Bofur cried.</p><p> </p><p>or, that time Buttons made up an ancient dwarven custom. (warning, unbeta'd.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battlesong to Soulforge

Their bonding had been born of cultural necessity. It had started with shared meals, as quest-brothers, and shared weapons, as survivors of Goblin Town. Ori remembered the grasp of Bifur's hand when they had staggered into sunlight from those dank caves, remembered the warmth and the grip, the way he had gasped in a breath of air not thick with the scent of goblin death, and the way Bifur had echoed that gasp but a word had followed.

They didn't have time to consider what had been said, being chased up trees and out of trees and onto the backs of soaring eagles, and he spread his arms wide and laughed into the rising sun, feeling giddy and helpless and as though he surely had to be dead. He would never be able to sketch what he had seen on the back of an eagle, never be able to put into words the thrill of being alive after being so sure that he would soon see the Halls of his Fathers (and maybe see who his father was after decades of idle curiosity). Dori had told him to hush.

Bifur's fingers brushed his as they rushed to see to their King, but there was not the time, not when they needed to see if Thorin lived.

The word did not come to him again until they stood in the halls of Beorn the Bearchanger and he had several mugs of mead in his belly.

It was an old dialect.

But he knew this word. He knew this word because he had studied many things and he had studied the eddas, the old songs of their ancestors, and he knew the translation of the ancient word held the same weight that it had in the past. He dropped his mug, ignoring the spill of it over his boots, as Bifur growled the word at him again, insistent, and he ignored the stares of his brothers and his cousins and the whole of the company. It would be too embarrassing, to see the confusion on most of their faces, when he knew, he knew, that everything had just changed.

He knew they wouldn't know until he told them, even the King, who had more on his mind than old words and ancient customs rarely called upon. Of course the warrior with the axe in his mind and his mind in the past would recall such things. He tried to breathe, and spoke. “Ùhùrudkumath.”

He had been named the Battlesong of a renowned warrior, and he was the son of a shamed house. He could not refuse. It would be foolish to refuse. He could almost feel his brothers, his dear, shamed brothers, rising to refuse, to deny the claim, but he held up his hands to get them to stop. How could they refuse this? This would be even more for them, not just him, this would mean lifting them above their state of shamed and forgotten by the Line of Durin. And who were they to deny the will of Mahal? Their Aule had chosen them, to be a matched set of lore master and lore warrior.

He started to speak, saw the confusion in his Soulforge, his umùradkhebab, and knew that this would not be so easily done. He knew the words, though, and he tried to find them, his voice stuttering as he recited, “And there he stood, his battle born forge/sword leading battle to point/to a victory his soul would sing.”

Later, he would find it difficult to recall what had happened next, aside from bits and pieces amidst a flurry of motion. Battlesongs and Soulforges did not often find themselves in those days, those days of ruin and trying to eke out existence in a mountain unwilling to give up iron. Thorin and Balin deemed it a blessing from Aulë, both on their quest and on the house of the Brothers Ri. Bilbo did not understand. Bofur cried. Ori did not know why, and he did not ask, he simply accepted the braid added to his hair by Bifur's closest kin, Bombur and Bofur working to undo two of his family braids and retwining the strands into a new union. Ori's hands shook when he added his own braid to Bifur's hair, listening to the grizzled dwarf rumble ancient words he only half understood. The ceremony required more than that, but he only scarcely knew what to do next. Balin, however, knew. He instructed them, speaking soft, knowing both were nervous.

Bofur guided Bifur in drawing the boarspear's blade to Ori's mouth – so he could bestow a kiss upon the blade that he would sing for – and to his chest – so he could feel the kiss of the blade near to his heart – and then to his hand, so he could let edge bite in his palm to draw his blood. He then presented his own small dagger to return the favor, gingerly touching his blade to Bifur's mouth – to lay a kiss on the blade that would carve his tales – and to his chest – to feel the kiss of the blade near to his heart – and then to his opposite hand, so that he could draw blood as well. Ori saw Bofur tighten his hold on Bifur, knew that Bifur fought the pain, but moved to grasp their hands, binding in blood. 

Dori presented him with an inkwell, a quill, and parchment, arranging the items on a table, and opened the inkwell to allow their blood to trickle in and mingle into the ink. He held tight to Bifur's hand, watching him with something like fear, something like desperation, because he could do this, he could do this for his family, for the dwarf clasping his hand, whose blood mingled with his...

The inkwell was set on the table. Bandages provided for both of them, and they wrapped one another's hands, Bofur helping Bifur with steadier fingers and Ori doing it himself, because that was as it should be. This warrior was his warrior, and he had to bandage wounds before he could tell the tale of them. Once ready, Ori moved to the table, sitting before the prepared writing instruments, and he dipped the quill into the blood and ink. His steady script flowed over the parchment, recounting their bonding tale, the union of their houses, the proper ceremony, knowing it needed to be recorded. This was the first of many tales, the first of his actions as the Battlesong, the one required to tall their tales, Bifur's tales.

And he would do so with pride.

He was Ori, Battlesinger to Bifur, of the Line of Durin, and he would write the next eddas. They would sing of his Soulforge for centuries to come.


End file.
